


A Hue of Suggestion

by lenore_writing



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Hobbit RPF Holiday Exchange, M/M, Photography, Selfies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenore_writing/pseuds/lenore_writing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean discovers that he can tell people's futures in the pictures he takes. He can even tell if two people will end up together, if he catches them in the same photo. Cue ridiculous antics as Dean tries to find a way to take a selfie with his crush. When he finally gets the photo, is he brave enough to read the future written in it? And if yes, will it be the answer he was hoping for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hue of Suggestion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [an_odd_ducky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_odd_ducky/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Палитра чувств и немного магии](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1342570) by [Netttle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netttle/pseuds/Netttle)



> Dear Ducky, I hope this is similar to what you had in mind. I hope you will like it and I wish you a wonderful holiday period with heaps of fun and massive amounts of sexy Hobbit love! Love, Lenore

Click.

He was one of those weird creatures who actually liked the clickety-click sound every time the camera captured another image. Any other person would have turned the sound off pretty early on, especially considering the frequency with which Dean used his camera, but he found the sound calming, comforting; one of the few things that was a constant in his life. And so he had left it on, leaning back in a relaxed semi-sprawl on the grass as he turned the lens towards Adam and Graham and took another photograph.

Click.

Turning his head slightly to get the knick out of his neck as he sat in a sort of semi-sit-up, he immediately continued to snap away as Ian minus his Gandalf hat but with a baseball cap trudged between the large stones of the South Island landscape.

Click. Click. Click.

Pulling the camera away from his eye, Dean opened the preview option and clicked through the images he had shot. Richard, standing ever so slightly away from the rest of them, swinging Orcrist in elegant arches through the air, becoming more like Thorin with every passing second. The purple misty haze surrounding him was something that Dean ignored: they all knew Richard was a perfectionist with a huge dose of self-consciousness at the best of times, so the aubergine-like colour didn't tell Dean anything new. But the splashes of gold at the corners of the picture also made it clear that Richard would be a household name in years to come, even if the Brit himself still had no clue about that. 

The second picture was one that radiated relaxed calm with an edge of utter and total hyperactivity. Dean had known Jed for years and even nearing 50, he was still the energetic bloke Dean had met all those years ago. He was yellow and orange and red; coloured like the sun and bound to have a long, happy life full of happiness and mischief. Dean smiled at the screen, happy for his friend and his family; happy how blessed they were to know Jed, even if he it was impossible to make him shut up most of the time.

The next picture, however...

Dean tilted his camera so the sun wasn't shining on the small screen as he bit his bottom lip. The picture was of Aidan, laughing and slapping his knee at something Stephen, seated right next to him, had said. There were the vague white lines connecting the two that always meant friendship, and while the colours around Stephen were blue and calm, pointing in a direction of a stable life, Aidan's was a downright explosion of hues. It was... odd. Dean had no other word for it. Usually he could read a picture as easily as the lines of a script, but Aidan was made of opposites; red for confidence and lilac for a lack of self-confidence; sunflower yellow for happiness and black for deep dark moods that nobody could decipher; light grey for the wish to excel and succeed and dark grey for the fear of being unable to cross the street without being recognised. Aidan, despite his open attitude, was an enigma. Dean had already found that out during their first audition that Aidan could chat and chat and chat without divulging a single personal thing, and that same mysterious conflict was right there in his pictures, making it impossible for Dean to read them. 

Dean had seen a picture of Aidan before he had officially been introduced to the rest of the cast, hanging on the wall in Make-Up: all long curls and full beard and not at all like the short-haired, smiling Irishman Dean knew, but the colours had been the same: like a bloody Irish fairytale where one would expect rainbows and leprechauns to shoot out of every corner. The hair had changed, the beard had gone, but the colours had not. Dean had tried several cameras on Aidan: his expensive Canon, his iPhone, his old, treasured Polaroid, but time and time again they had shown the same explosion of bright greens and blues and pinks. An enigma, but one that felt right, happy but with those strange revolving door things life tended to do every now and again. But there was pearly white as well and that meant that no matter what, Aidan would succeed, just because he was Aidan.

Yet there was one thing Dean did know for sure: he liked the man. More than liked him. Perhaps he even had a crush on him, because anyone who wasn't blind could see what a handsome guy the Dubliner was. Which was why he was ever so slightly obsessed by the colours surrounding the younger actor.

The first time he had seen any colours at all had been when he was twelve years old and had been given his very first camera as a birthday present. He had been whinging about getting one for ages and before he had opened his brightly wrapped package he had been told by both his mum and dad that the gift inside was both for his birthday and Christmas, with the two days lying so close together, but little Dean had hardly cared when he had ripped the paper off with the speed of light to reveal a Polaroid camera. It wasn't what Dean had expected. He had wanted something simple where you pushed a button and had to wait until the roll was filled before you could see what all the clicking had produced. But once filled with white squares and after the first press to the black button on top, there was something wonderful about the instant gratification he got at seeing what his endeavours had produced. And the machine was far more magical than he had imagined, too: every single picture did not only show the object Dean had photographed, but also colours and swirls and bright spots, like ghosts in a rainbow. The first time he had shown Brett, his younger brother had laughed at him and called him an egg. Dean, who at that age had been totally unable to take Brett seriously, had shown his father instead, who had stared at the pictures for a long while before he had patted Dean on the head and told him to back outside and play some more. And even as a small boy Dean had known that nobody could see what he could; like the Emperor's New Clothes. After that he had hardly every touched the subject again. Once or twice, after one too many beers, he had shown a lover or a friend one of the pictures and asked them if they saw something weird, but every time they had just laughed, called Dean a dipshit and had asked for more booze, because booze healed everything when you were in your mid-twenties.

Once, when he had turned older, he had considered it to be auras made visible by the technique of the camera, but he didn't believe in auras and they looked a lot more like swirls besides; like snakes or branches or sometimes like fireworks. And when he had read up on auras it became apparent that they apparently always changed according to a person's mood, while the colours in his pictures did not. Once a tint was there, it would be the same in every picture thereafter; like a trace of DNA. 

He had a little wooden box. Well, actually, it was an old cigar box that had once belonged to his grandfather and still smelled ever so slightly of smoke and tobacco. The outside was decorated with black images of faraway place in the East Indies and to young Dean it had always looked exactly like a pirate's treasure trove.  
One sunny Sunday morning his grandfather had given Dean a slightly shabbily drawn treasure map and a shuffle and had sent the little boy on his way around the garden for a treasure quest.  
His grandfather, who had always had a soft spot for his eldest grandson, had emptied the box of his treasured cigars before he had buried it. The sweets that he'd lovingly put in there had been inedible because of the lingering scent of smoke, but Dean had not cared. Instead he had packed his GI Joes into it, together with the shell he had found on the beach last summer and the dollar he had stolen from Brett, as happy as a boy on Christmas morning with his gift.  
But now the action figures and nicked coins were gone, replaced by the pictures of those he held most dear. Pictures Dean had never dared to turn around in case they told him what the future would bring. It was a cliché question during interviews: would you like to know the future if you could? And while any other person would probably say yes, to have the ability to actually do know it was something completely different. It frightened Dean and every year after Christmas dinner or his dad's birthday, or one of Brett's performances, more and more photos began to disappear inside the box, white side up so Dean couldn't catch a glimpse of what the future had in store for them. What if the blackness of disease showed around one of them? What if Brett's immediate future confirmed a very sudden fatherhood, or prison? What if his mum had a car accident? Dean didn't want to know.

And thus it had become Dean's secret; one he carried with him at all times but never spoke of, like a disease he needed to keep silent about.

However, he had found one very practical use for his "gift": with every person he was interested in, he could tell whether the feelings were mutual. While bonds of friendship were white, bonds of attraction were more like a shimmering silver. In fact, his pictures had once or twice led him to end a relationship during his teens, just because he saw no need in being with someone who wasn't the right one for him anyway. And those mysterious silver threads like fairydust on the wind were what he was looking for now.

Or actually not looking for because he was bloody petrified of what those threads might mean if he found them, or actually if he did not find them at all. 

Once again his eyes travelled down towards his camera and Aidan's picture. Dean knew there would be bright white lines between him and Aidan if he ever grew the balls to take a picture of the two of them together, because they were as close as brothers. But silver? Dean pulled a face and turned the camera off, neatly stuffing it back in its bag. He could be a slob, but never with his cameras. 

And so his quest for taking a selfie with Aidan by his side - a double selfie, so to say - had begun. Of course he could have asked Adam or Graham or Richard to take a photograph of the both of them. All of them were as obsessed with taking pictures as he was, albeit of the New Zealand landscape, but they would have done it in an instant. But that was where the trouble began: Dean had to push the button. It couldn't be anyone else, not even the person he was interested in, or else the photo would look like any other bog standard still. No, it had to be Dean and it had to be done with the other person right into the frame. Not an arm, or a lock of hair, or even a shoe: no, it had to be a face.

Of course Dean could go up to Aidan and ask for a duo portrait, but he hadn't done that to any of the guys and Dean had only arrived on set a few weeks prior. It wasn't as if he had reached that level of closeness that the others had yet. He had missed Dwarf Boot Camp and he always received training before or after principal filming to get his sword fighting skills up to the same level as the rest. Add to that the pile of The Almighty Johnsons scripts he had lying in his trailer and one could imagine it wasn't as easy as that to ask Aidan for a picture. That, and to be completely honest, he lacked the balls to do so. What if Aidan reckoned he was a lunatic to be avoided for a year and a half?

Which was when the secret selfies had started. He made sure to have his iPhone with him at all times, tucked away in Fili's belt -not in triple Bombur's chin like Stephen did - to snap away whenever he had a chance. A selfie with Aidan standing right next to him at their breakfast buffet, making James raise one dark eyebrow and therefore just missing Aidan as he toddled off to get more tea. Another selfie while they were reshooting some of the Bag Eng scenes when a bloody chicken leg blocked out Kili's face in the practice shot. In the Goblin Caves, having finally found a way to get a whole bunch of Dwarves together when a green spandex-clad bloke thought it was fun to photobomb the picture. The list was endless; from Ian's Gandalf-beard blowing in front of Dean's lens, to Dean making the silly mistake of taking a picture with the camera at the front of his phone and not at the back, therefore missing Aidan entirely, to Peter's beloved teacup blocking out both of their faces, the only thing visible a bunch of beards. 

Of course something as odd as taking constant selfies could not go unnoticed. Unfortunately the person who commented on it was also the one who Dean least wanted to talk to about.

"Is that your dirty, little secret, mate? Taking selfies?" Aidan took another bite of his apple in their short break, before offering the half-eaten piece of fruit to Dean, who shook his head at the gesture, although whether it was because he didn't fancy eating apples or because he really, really wasn't getting off on taking pics of his own face, Aidan wouldn't know. 

"Yeah, because I really love seeing my own face," Dean replied, the wit there even though he was trying desperately to erase the final few photographs he had taken. A useless task, of course, with a curious Dubliner ripping the phone out of his hands, flipping though the images with the mien of a professional artist. "Deano. Deano. Deano. Hey, another Deano. Look!" And Aidan pushed the camera into Dean's face, like he had found the bloody motherlode. "A Deano!" Aidan switched the iPhone off and threw it into Dean's lap. "I'm not one to judge, but I think you may have a problem, mate." But Aidan was smirking, shaking his head and slapping a hand to Dean's shoulder while Dean's face was slowly turning into a tomato. "So are you takin' all those pics to practice your photography?"

"Yes!" Dean crowed more than said, so glad for the way out that Aidan offered him that he sounded like a chicken who was about to have his head chopped off. He cleared his throat, lowered his voice to Fili notes and said again, "Yes. I just want to try to better myself all the time. Get all those technical things right. Practice light effects. Get the right expression for the right occasion."

Aidan nodded as Dean spoke - rambled, but who was counting? - staring off into the sunset, long legs crossed as he took a puff of his cigarette, the apple for now forgotten in lieu of tar. "Yeah, that sounds logical." It didn't come up again until two weeks later.

The Day of Release (well, not that kind of release) finally came during their third week of filming Scene 88. By now they were all exhausted, moody, annoyed and not a bit impressed by New Zealand's landscape anymore. Dean, who the others often made fun of because he didn't have to wear a fat suit like most of them, was definitely having disadvantages during those scenes where he had to jump off cliffs, run down hills and look like it cost no effort whatsoever; his swords, plethora of knifes, war hammer, daggers and what not weighed a ton and made it almost impossible to move, let alone do some light-footed running.

Some moments Dean felt like he wasn't even alive anymore. Like someone had turned him into a very tired robot who desperately needed to be plugged into a socket. He did what Andy asked - running, of course - then promptly dropped down into the grass when he heard 'cut'. 

It was during one of those stages between being unable to move and desperately needing coffee when he felt someone's presence drop down next to him, a head landing none too softly on Dean's fake muscle suit. Dean didn't even need to open his eyes to know who it was.

"Jesus Christ," Aidan cursed, brogue so thick one could cut it with a knife. "Think Andy will try to kill us today?"

Dean lazily opened one eye. "I bet he does. He will hire our mini doubles. Half the size, half the prize."

Aidan sniggered, elbowing Dean in the side. "Play nice, mate."

But all Dean did was shrug and yawn. "I'm too tired to be nice. I want a shower, a bottle of Johnny W., a massage and a bed. All at the same time, please."

"You want a bed in your shower?" For all of Aidan's complaining of dying he sounded pretty damn awake and amused on top of it. "Are you sure you didn't hit your noggin' on a rock?"

Dean closed his eyes again and pulled a face, not even moving when one slender hand pulled Dean's iPhone from his Fili belt. "Whatchadoing?" Dean slurred. "In case you forgot, Bilbo is the burglar."

"In the movie, yeah," Aidan agreed, his playing around with his phone making him open his eyes and sit up, but one slender hand pushed him back down again. "Selfies, remember?" Aidan smirked, unlocking Dean's phone before he held it out to the Kiwi. "Here. Now you can show the world how miserable we all are."

Dean cocked an eyebrow at Aidan, his heartbeat picking up a notch because was Aidan really telling him to take a selfie of the both of them? After trying for weeks, Aidan gave him the chance as easily as a handful of the trail mix he always ate. But before Aidan could change his mind, Dean had already pushed the button, immediately putting the camera away again because that was the proof he had: that one pictures of two sweaty Dwarves right in the middle of an endless stretch of grass and rocks. That was Aidan's cue to cock his eyebrow, obviously surprised that Dean had neither checked the photo, nor shown it to him, but at that moment Andy called them and Aidan seemed to forget all about selfies and pictures and lying in the burning hot sun in a costume that had smelled better.

"Bloody...," he cursed, not even finishing it when he stumbled to his feet, holding out a hand to Dean, who took is more than gladly, his knives clicking when he got back up. They stood like that for a moment, brothers in arms, except for perhaps the fact that they were holding hands, when Aidan gave Dean a smirk. "If you take care of that Johnny W., I will make sure you get that massage."

And with those words Aidan was gone, not even waiting for a reply because he already seemed to know that Dean's would be 'yes'. They were far, far from the living world, living like gypsies in trailers for as long as scene bloody 88 took and the offer was too good to pass up. And so the answer was yes. They didn't speak of it for the rest of the day, but when Dean, already having forgotten their agreement with his brain half set on resting and the other half already in a state of coma, heard the knock on the door right after his shower and found an equally wet-haired, tracksuit bottom-clad Irishman at the other end of the door, Dean remembered. 

The Johnny Walker flowed like water, as per agreement. Dean swore that Aidan's hands were made of Irish magic when they skilfully kneaded the knots out of his back, whilst Aidan teased Dean with his lack in skill as he reciprocated the gesture, although the soft moaning into the cushions of the sofa were a giveaway of what Aidan really reckoned of Dean's massage.

Neither could later remember how they had ended up as naked as the day they were born in Dean's none too clean bed, their clothes haphazardly strewn across the room as Dean continued to caress Aidan's naked, tanned back with the palms of his hands, then slowly opened him up with tongue and fingers until Aidan was nothing but a moaning, cursing mess, already soiling the sheets with pre-cum before they had even started. And when Dean sank home, their heavy breathing in sync, their fingers twined together on the pillow to balance and hold on, they both whispered words of ecstasy; silly nonsense that always made sense in such situations but would make them blush in the morning, but neither of them cared; not when Aidan's thrust his hips backwards in time with Dean's pounding forward. There was no finesse to their love making, no romance or Shakespearean odes, but they didn't need that. All they wanted was to feel and to be felt; to touch and taste and leave marks that only they would know about. It was all that mattered. And when Aidan balanced on one hand, his breaths now continues moans as he closed his fist around his cock, changing Dean's rhythm in the process, they both seemed to find that one perfect little bit of amazingness that even beautiful New Zealand had been lacking. 

Aidan, as Dean had expected, was a cuddler and a sleeper. He sure as hell was so during the day and there was even more truth to it after an orgasm that left both men panting for air. Dean didn't mind. Instead he pulled the Dubliner closer, Aidan's head resting on Dean's bare shoulder, Dean fished around next to the bed to find his jogging pants and his phone. Lazily, post-coital, he manoeuvred against the sheets until he was sure he had both of them in the same frame.

Click.

And this time Dean didn't wait. This time he opened the preview option as soon as the camera had created the image for eternity. It took a while for Dean to look. Everything appeared much more appealing to look at; the crooked venetian blinds; the creases in the duvet; the last sunlight forcing its way behind the hills and mountain, but at last curiosity won out. And when Aidan picked up the camera half an hour later, Dean's strawberry blonde head resting peacefully in the hollow between neck and shoulder, fast asleep, he did not notice the fireworks of silver light across the screen when he turned Dean's precious camera off and put it on the bedside table, ready to use for another day.

 

~The End~


End file.
